240 Bruce, A Month -with the Goldfinches. Y\^y 



Sapsuckers flopped about in the apple trees, young Vireos were 

 followed here and there by anxious mothers, Catbirds uttered notes 

 of warning by the roadsides, and infant Flycatchers and Thrushes 

 regarded me with large inquiring eyes. A pair of belated Robins, 

 nervous and overworked, were looking after their young ones, who 

 were still in the nest, but for the most part family car£s were over, 

 and my only hope of watching the home life of the birds was to 

 find a Goldfinch's nest. 



In vain I searched the orchard near the house. Goldfinches 

 flashed in and out among the branches, and sang of summer joys 

 over my head, but they guarded well the secret of their homes. 

 When I had nearly given up in despair, chance favored me, and I 

 happened upon the object of my search in a maple tree in front of 

 a neighboring farmhouse. Blessings never come singly, and just 

 as I was rejoicing in this treasure trove the little daughter of the 

 house pointed out another nest in the orchard. A third nest, also 

 in a maple tree, was discovered a few days later, but this was 

 already full of half fledged birds, and both maple tree dwellings 

 were too high in the branches to be easily watched. 



Nothing could be better suited to my purpose than the home in 

 the orchard. The Goldfinches had chosen a tiny pear tree quite 

 close to the house, and the nest was barely four feet from the 

 ground. There was something very charming in the confidence 

 they had shown their human neighbors, and the pair won my 

 heart from the first by their gentle, trustful ways. It w^as a satis- 

 faction to watch a nest for once where I was not treated like a 

 robber and murderer. I could draw my chair quite near to the 

 little pear tree, and the mother bird would look at me without a 

 shadow of alarm in her bright eyes. 



It was marvelous to see how quickly she recognized the voice of 

 her mate in the Goldfinch chorus about her. Her neighbors in 

 the maple tree might come and go, and she never stirred a feather, 

 but a sudden quivering of the wings and a soft twittering response 

 would announce his approach long before I could hear his voice, 

 and as his song became audible to me, louder and more joyful 

 grew her note of welcome. He would alight in a neighboring tree, 

 speak to me first in a mild, questioning tone, like a pet canary 

 talking to his mistress, and then fly down to the nest and feed his 



